Mixed Doubles
by cecelle
Summary: Complete. Formerly known as Polyjuiced. When Snape rescues an injured Hermione out of Voldemort's clutches, she finds herself in quite an unexpected situation. Getting used to Snape as a nursemaid is not exactly easy.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: While hit with writer's block on the current M&V chapter, I participated in a gift exchange – this story was written for Keladry Lupin, who had requested a HG/SS story with a romance element, H/C with Hermione on the receiving end, and not too long.

This is a story that portrays Snape in a positive light, so if that is something that bothers you, consider yourself warned. I have always considered Snape to be on the side of the angels.

Beta-read by the lovely and multi-talented Bellegeste.

x-x-x

When Hermione opened her eyes, slowly fighting her way out of the dark haze that threatened to engulf her again, she had no idea where she was. The room she found herself in was bathed in darkness, the window tightly shuttered. A single candle gave off feeble, flickering light.

Slowly, the shadows started to pull together and move into focus—a chest of drawers, fading wall paper, the painting of a sleeping kitten in an old-fashioned, gilded frame on the wall. The kitten yawned and turned a little as she watched—a wizarding home, then.

Memories returned with consciousness: memories of red beams of light flying in her direction, of oblivion, of waking up to find herself surrounded by darkly-shrouded figures with masks. More memories—of red eyes; of high-pitched, cold laughter; of the acrid smell of wood smoke; of wave after wave of pain, pain which hadn't stopped until her mind had short-circuited and sent her into merciful unconsciousness. She hadn't expected to wake up.

So what was she doing here, in this quiet, dark place, on a comfortable bed, covered with a light blanket? Where was she? Cautiously, she attempted to look around. The slight turn of her head sent a sharp stab of pain through the base of her skull, making her gasp. With alarm, she noticed that the sound had provoked a reaction. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone get up, black moving against black.

"Miss Granger."

_No. Oh no. Not him._ The voice sent terror through her bones. She knew that voice; she had heard it almost every day for the six years of her time at Hogwarts, sneering, sarcastic, sour: Snape.

Instinctively, she tried to roll away, to find cover. No use. Whatever had been done to her had sapped her strength, leaving her defenseless. It took all that she had to move a bare inch.

"What do you want with me?" she asked in a shaking voice. Whatever it was, it had to be bad news. What_ could_ Severus Snape—traitor, murderer—want with her?

"Calm yourself. I'm not going to hurt you," he said sharply.

_Right. Like you didn't hurt Dumbledore._

Her disbelief must have shown, because he sat down on a chair next to the bed, a weary expression on his face. "You may believe me, Granger, when I say that I would much rather not have to deal with you, but since it appears I have no choice in the matter, I suggest we make the best of it."

"Where am I?" asked Hermione cautiously.

"My house. Or more precisely, Dumbledore's house."

"Dumbledore? But you…!" She stopped abruptly. She was in his power; it wouldn't do to antagonize him. Buy time. Be calm. Be non-confrontational. Keep him talking. Standard negotiating techniques, covered in her first year of Auror Academy.

"I_ killed_ him? Is that what you are trying to say?" he asked harshly, a bitter, hard expression running over his face. "And yet Dumbledore, with admirable foresight, left me this house should I ever need a safe place to go." He ran a long-fingered hand over his face. "Look, Miss Granger, I will explain everything later, but for right now, you'll just have to take my word as a wizard that I will not try to harm you. —You were injured. Are you in any pain?"

Hermione carefully took stock. However unexpected his behavior, at least she didn't seem to be in acute danger at the moment. Whatever 'explanation' he was talking about, it was doubtful she would be able to believe a word of it, not after what he had done, but it would, for the moment, be wisest to play along. He was offering to help her, and whatever his ulterior motive — and she was sure that there _was_ an ulterior motive — her situation could only improve if she got physically better. Right now, she could not have fought a first year and won. Even if she _had_ had her wand.

Very well, then.

"My lower right leg," she said. Trying to move earlier had sent searing pain through her calf.

"Anywhere else?"

She looked at him hesitatingly for a moment. "Just about _everywhere_ else," she admitted. Most of her joints and muscles were still ringing with the aftershocks of being Crucio'ed.

"The Cruciatus curse?"

She nodded. "Yes. And several Stunners before that, I think."

"Will you let me examine your leg?"

She gave him another wary glance before nodding cautiously.

He pulled down the blanket, then pushed up her robe to mid-thigh. It took all her self-control not to flinch at his touch. _Murderer. _

Yet his hands were surprisingly careful as his fingers ran over her calf. A sharp hiss escaped her as he found the injured spot.

"A torn muscle. It can happen from the convulsions." He straightened up. "I have a potion that will help."

Walking over to a cabinet in the corner and rummaging through the shelves, he pulled out two bottles, a pot of salve, and a small glass jar containing a silvery-grey powder. A flick of the wrist, and a small cup appeared on the bedside table. He carefully measured out a dram of potion from a striking, spherical bottle filled with a viscous, sickly pink potion.

"Take this. It will counteract the effects of the Cruciatus."

This time she did flinch as he slid a hand under her neck, slightly lifting her head so she could drink.

She swallowed the sticky liquid with difficulty, but the relief was almost immediate — warm tendrils snaking through her muscles and joints, calming nerves still irritated by the curse. He gently lowered her head back onto the pillow, then picked up the pot of ointment.

Dipping out a small amount of the salve, he rubbed it into her leg. It hurt when he touched her, but soon soothing heat penetrated down into the painful muscles.

He gave a satisfied nod as he watched the lines of her face relax, the tight grimace of pain fade away as the discomfort eased. Carefully pulling her robe down over her leg and covering her back up with the blanket, he then mixed the second potion with a spoonful of the grey powder. "Here." He poured some of the liquid into the cup. "This will counteract the effects of the Stunners as well as provide further pain relief."

Hermione looked up at him with raised eyebrows, the academic in her momentarily taking over. "There is a potion that actually counteracts the effect of a Stunning spell?" Last she had heard, the only way to treat multiple Stunner hits was to provide rest and palliative care, allowing the body to heal itself.

He smiled a thin smile. "If you will remember, I was the Potions master."

Her face grew hard again. "Oh, I _remember."_

It _was_ possible that he had actually come up with a new potion. Harry's Potions book had shown her beyond a doubt that whatever else Snape was, he was an innovative, intuitive, extremely capable brewer.

Again she debated if this was a good idea — who knew what this potion really was! — but in the end decided to take it. She was in his power, feeble and wandless; if he wanted to harm her, there was nothing she could do about it anyway. Even with the pain abating, she was still weak as a Kneazle cub, hardly able to lift a hand, much less defend herself.

The mixture didn't taste too bad. There was a hint of — lime? Grapefruit? — in the flavor…and the texture was cool and slippery. No, really not too bad…

A moment later, her eyelids grew heavy, and the room started spinning in ever more rapid circles. "That wasn't…" she said, outrage in her voice. "You…that was…you gave me a sleeping potion!"

He took the cup from her with a nonchalant shrug. "Of course," he said with a sneer. "The only cure for a Stunning spell is to let the body rest so it can heal itself — really, Miss Granger, I should have expected you to know that?"

His smirking face faded away as she slipped into oblivion.


	2. Struggling to Keep Up

When she woke again, it was marginally lighter in the room — must be daytime, then. She felt better; it now seemed like she had only gone five rounds with a Hungarian Horntail instead of twenty. The pain in her joints and tendons had eased, but when she tried to prop herself up on her elbows, she fell back onto the pillow with a suppressed oath. Her muscles still were not cooperating.

Snape must have put up motion detection wards, since the door to her room opened only a moment later.

"Miss Granger."

She eyed him warily, getting a good look at him for the first time. At first glance, he didn't seem to have changed much – the same black hair, black robes, black eyes. At second glance, the lines on his face had grown deeper. He looked like he had lost weight, and there were dark shadows under his eyes, as if he wasn't sleeping well. Maybe some last crumbling vestiges of conscience were still alive. Maybe that was why she wasn't dead right now.

"Are you hungry?" he asked abruptly.

She could hear her stomach rumbling even as he asked. Cautiously, she nodded, not knowing what to make of his behavior. What was he doing? _Why_ was he helping her?

He left, only to return a few minutes later with a bowl of steaming porridge. Setting it down on her bedside table, he turned to her. "Can you sit up?"

She tried. Gosh, how she tried. She hated for him to realize how weak she still was, but as soon as she attempted to pull herself up, the muscles in her upper arms started shaking so hard that she had to give up the attempt. _Damn._

Without saying a word, he slid his arm around her shoulders, then pulled her up while rearranging the pillows behind her back with his other hand, settling her comfortably into a half-raised position. Sitting down on the chair next to her bed, he matter-of-factly dipped the spoon into the porridge, bringing it to her mouth. "Eat."

She needed to eat if she wanted to get stronger. Not eating would have been stupid. She wasn't stupid. But, oh Merlin. _Snape_. With tears of humiliation in her eyes, refusing to look at him, she opened her mouth, her head filled with ugly thoughts.

She didn't want his help. She was an Auror, for crying out loud. She had had these visions of being the one to hunt him down, to bring him to justice. Wouldn't_ that_ have looked good on her resumé. Instead, Severus Snape, Death Eater, was now leaning over her, feeding her as if she were a baby. Every bite tasted bitter.

When the bowl was empty, he leaned back in his chair. "You will have questions, I suppose," he said awkwardly. "I should explain."

"Oh, please do," she said cynically. This should be good. What kind of tale would he spin her?

"Last night, when I arrived, after – he – summoned me, you were already unconscious. You were captured during a raid, apparently?"

"Yes. We had received word — I'm an Auror now…well, an Auror-in-training," she amended defiantly, as a disparaging sneer starting to curl the corner of his mouth. "Anyway, we had received word that an attack was in progress on the home of a Muggle-born witch. I got separated from the main group…then I got Stunned…." The memory stung. It had been a stupid mistake on her part, and it should have got her killed.

But why was she telling him this at all? He was supposed to be the one doing the talking.

It was, she thought bitterly, a return to old patterns. Apparently, nothing had changed. He'd ask a question, and she'd fall all over herself trying to answer him, trying to impress him. During her school years, a sentence of approval from Professor Snape was her Holy Grail – as longed for, and as out of reach. All she had ever got was his trademark sneer. Well, at least this time, he'd have ample reason to sneer. She _had_ been stupid. He'd enjoy this.

Except he didn't sneer. He just looked…tired.

"As you may imagine, I had limited options to effect your safety. I…persuaded the Dark Lord that I had a personal score to settle with Harry Potter's little Mudblood friend." His face hardened when he saw her flare up at the word. "It was the only way I could safely remove you from the situation. To ask for you as a personal boon." He continued in a softer voice, almost as if to himself, "Dumbledore was right about that, at least — as his killer, I have privileges with the Dark Lord that others of his followers can only dream of." He smiled sourly, bitterly as he looked at her again. "He did order me to dispose of you once I was through with you."

There had been fear lurking as a constant at the back of her mind, here alone with him, at his mercy, but now it rolled forward in waves, threatening to overwhelm her. What did he mean? Was he going to…? Is that why he was trying to get her healthier? Because he didn't enjoy… because he wanted…? The cold fear and repulsion must have shown in her eyes, because he gave a hoarse, harsh laugh.

"Good god, Granger, I have not fallen so far as to take pleasure in…violating a former student. Your virtue is in no danger from me. As I promised — I will not harm you."

"Then what _do _you want?" she whispered.

"Nothing." He looked at her, a hard expression on his face. "The only thing I want is for you to leave. But there are…complications."

Complications? And it sounded like he actually wanted to let her go? And what had he said about Dumbledore earlier? And why not just let Voldemort kill her? Her mind was swirling with confused thoughts. None of this made any sense. None in the least.

He wearily rubbed his eyes. "It's a long story. I sincerely wish it hadn't become necessary to tell it, but under the circumstances, it is the only way you will understand."

Rising from his chair, he walked over to the window, looking out through a crack in the shutters as he began to recount what had happened.

In carefully controlled tones, he began to tell her his story. Of the Unbreakable Vow. Of finding out exactly what he had sworn to do. Of Dumbledore's insistence he follow through. Of, in the end, having to obey the old man's command, as he arrived on top of the Tower and saw that there were no better options left. Of being Dumbledore's man at the Dark Lord's side ever since — the source of the information Minerva had claimed came from some mysterious source in the Department of Mysteries, information that had saved countless lives and led to the capture of several Death Eaters.

When he had finished telling the tale, there was silence for a moment. He stood by the window, his back ramrod straight, and Hermione lay under the covers, feeling shivery and cold inside.

The story he had told her made _sense_. It explained all the little inconsistencies that had niggled at the back of her mind ever since Harry had told her of Snape's treacherous deed. She had refused to believe that Dumbledore could have been taken in so easily, that he would have been so much of a fool, but the hard evidence staring her in the face said otherwise. Now it appeared that, as usual, Harry's information had only covered part of the truth.

For the first time, she really looked at the man in front of her, saw him as a person. Until now, he had fitted into neat mental boxes, easily classified. First he had been the stern, sour, sarcastic teacher, the black-robed specter who sneered at their substandard potions and delighted in doling out detentions. Feared, respected, disliked. Then he had been the criminal, Dark wizard, follower of Voldemort, a stock villain. But now… She didn't know what to make of him. What he had said had left her mind struggling, protesting, and trying to keep up, as over the course of his story her view of him took a slow, arduous 180-degree turn.

All this time, Snape had been on their side. All this time, the only thing of which he had been guilty was the fact that he had been a little too clever for his own good, making a mistake that had led straight into the Unbreakable Vow. After that, it had been out of his hands. Unlike Harry's story, this_ fitted. _Fitted with what she thought she had known about Dumbledore, and fitted with what she had thought she had known about Snape. And he had nothing to gain by telling her, and everything to lose. If Voldemort should ever find out… Another shiver ran over her. The mere fact that he had not killed her as ordered would probably be enough to cost him his life.

Dumbledore had always been so adamant in his trust for Snape, so zealous to see him treated with respect… When she had heard the raw, ragged edge creep into Snape's voice as he told her about Dumbledore's death, she had for the first time understood that Snape had cared deeply about the old man.

To kill him, to then live the life of an outcast, despised by every one of his former colleagues and compatriots as well as the entire wizarding world, a price on his head…. He had only sketched in the barest details for her, but she could see the empty, lonely spaces between the lines.

"So only Professor McGonagall knows?" she said, feeling unbidden tears rise in her eyes. She rigorously swallowed them away. His prickly pride would not appreciate an outpouring of compassion.

He cast a swift glance in her direction. "And now you." He didn't sound as if he were at all happy about the fact.

Why should he be? With sudden clarity, she understood the predicament they both were in.

"I can't return to the Order, can I?" she said quietly. "If Voldemort finds out…" So that was why he hadn't simply Apparated her to St. Mungo's or the front door of Headquarters — he could not afford to have her seen alive.

Snape nodded. "And he would find out, sooner rather than later. I believe you know that there is a leak in the Order?"

Hermione nodded. Yes, she knew that. After one of their moles in the Ministry had been exposed, and Remus Lupin had found his house ransacked after returning from a mission, McGonagall had strongly cautioned her and Harry to watch whom they talked to, and had adopted Voldemort's strategy of not telling anyone the whole plan, of keeping some things for a carefully chosen inner circle instead of announcing them at the full Order meetings. "You do not know…?"

He shook his head. "My best efforts at uncovering who the traitor is have been unsuccessful."

"So I will have to stay here? Indefinitely?" She couldn't quite keep the dismay out of her voice.

"No." He gave her a calculating glance. "I sent a Patronus to Minerva, and she agrees. If you are willing to cooperate, there is a solution."

She looked at him questioningly. "And that is…?"

"Polyjuice. Minerva has been claiming that the information I have given her over the last two years came from a contact in the Department of Mysteries, an Unspeakable with connections. You could rejoin the Order under a false identity. "

"Wouldn't people be suspicious of a new Order member?"

Snape shook his head. "The Fidelius Charm will not be fooled by the potion. You will still be able to enter Headquarters, as only those who have been told its location directly by Dumbledore can, and the Order will have to accept you. And Minerva will vouch for you. As far as the practical implications…" With a sigh, he interrupted himself. "You need to rest. It is of no use talking about this any further until you have recovered sufficiently." He stood up. "I shall let you sleep now."

As Snape left the room, Hermione, sore and bone-tired, closed her eyes, trying to somehow make sense of things. On the surface, his plan seemed feasible. The Order's inner circle still met at Grimmauld Place, though the general meetings now took place on an outlying farm spread in Devonshire — since Dumbledore's death, no new members had been able to find the Black residence. The fact that she could still enter the residence… She yawned as her brain grew fuzzy with exhaustion, slowly letting go of rational thought. It was sad to think that when the last of the present Order members died, the house would simply disappear into distant memory, never to be found again… Her mind whirled with blurry, half-formed thoughts, of a suddenly changed past, an unexpected present, and an uncertain future; whirled with blurry, half-dreamed pictures of the gloomy old house, of Dumbledore, of Snape; and with an ache in her chest, she fell asleep.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed on the last chapter! And thanks to Bellegeste and Verity for looking this over and fixing all my stupid mistakes! 


	3. Bad News

My priority right now is getting _Mist and Vapor_ finished, so revising this is taking a back seat, but the story is written and will be completed. Written for Keladry Lupin in the SS/HG gift exchange on LiveJournal. Warning: character death. (Not Snape or Hermione, though. ;-)

Standard Disclaimer: It's all J.K. Rowling's.

The story so far: An injured Hermione wakes up to find that Snape has rescued her after she was captured by Death Eaters during a raid. It turns out that, as far as Dumbledore's death is concerned, Harry (as usual) didn't get his facts right. Since Voldemort has ordered her dead, she can't return to the Order – at least not as Hermione Granger. But for the moment, she is too weak to worry about that, anyway.

* * *

It was hard, getting used to Snape as a nursemaid. Not only was she still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that he was not actually as thoroughly nasty as she had believed, he was also her former teacher – and a man. Sick-care was much too intimate at times for her to feel comfortable with him as the caregiver. More than once she looked away in embarrassment, blushing a furious red, wishing she were anywhere else. 

Yet she had to admit that he was surprisingly good at it. Oh, he didn't have a lot to say, and when he did speak, nothing had changed – he was still the same sarcastic, acidic, short-tempered man she had known. No pleasant, encouraging bedside chatter from him.

But she slowly discovered that, while his tongue remained as sharp as ever, his hands were competent and astonishingly gentle as he took care of her. He handled her matter-of-factly, with a minimum of fuss. Hermione appreciated that more than she could say.

The second day of her stay at Dumbledore's place — and really, if nothing else, the painting of the frolicking kitten on the wall of her room would have been conclusive proof that this house was not originally decorated by the dour Potions master — Minerva McGonagall stopped by for a visit, bringing with her some of Hermione's clothes and a substitute wand.

"So, how are you, my dear?" the older witch asked, sitting down on the chair next to her bed.

"Better than I was," she answered with a wry smile. At least at this point Snape didn't have to feed her any more – she could manage a spoon on her own. "I'll be fine."

"I'm glad to hear it..."

Hermione looked sharply at Hogwarts' headmistress. Minerva seemed distracted, discomfited.

"Did everyone…?" Hermione hesitated, dreading the answer to her question. "During the raid when I was captured – did everyone else make it out all right?"

Minerva relaxed a bit. "Yes, they did," she answered with a quick smile. "There were a few minor injuries, but nothing Poppy couldn't fix." Her face grew serious again. "As far as anyone knows, you were the only casualty. Ron and Harry are still holding out hope that you've only been taken prisoner. They aren't quite prepared to give up yet. But as far as everyone else…" She let her voice trail off.

"They think I'm dead." Looking down at her hands, Hermione was quiet for a while. Voldemort wasn't known for showing mercy to his captives. The bodies of some of his victims had never been found, so it couldn't be ruled out that there might be some captives locked away in a dungeon somewhere, but for the most part, once someone was taken by Death Eaters, that someone didn't make it back.

Minerva's voice faltered. "It's been…horrible, not being able to tell them that you're alive. They are…devastated. But I simply can't afford for Harry to find out. Voldemort could reestablish his link to him at any time, and you know as well as I do that when it comes to Harry, Remus and Ron can't be trusted. They would tell him if they knew." Hermione could see her swallowing hard. "It isn't worth the risk to Severus' life."

Hermione nodded. "I understand." She faltered. "Would you mind telling me – how did you find out? That he was – is – still on our side?"

Folding her hands on her lap, Minerva leaned back in her chair with a sigh. "It took me weeks to feel comfortable in Albus' office," she said. "It seemed…sacrilegious, to take over what had been his space for so long, to clean out his drawers, to put away his things. It was bad enough having his portrait there, reminding me of all we had lost. It's a mere shadow of the real Albus, that portrait, but when he did finally wake up – he slept for nearly a month; I guess he must have been worn out, poor man, and small wonder – he told me to look in a certain, hidden drawer in his desk. When I did, a small package materialized. He must have Charmed it so only I could find it.

"It contained two items. One was a glass bottle, filled with his memories. The other was a sealed letter, containing a long list of advice and instructions, from where to procure the best sherbet lemons to understanding his filing system.

"Near the end of the letter, he told me about Severus. That he wanted me to know that no matter what had happened to him, Severus was not to blame. He told me to look at the memories in the bottle and to then make up my own mind based on the evidence. That he needed me to trust Severus, even if for obvious reasons his true allegiance had to remain a secret." She smiled a quavering smile at Hermione. "So after looking at the memories…well, they left no doubt in my mind. I decided to contact him. I don't know what the Order would have done without him over the last three years."

"The rest of the Order hates him…"

There was a pained expression on McGonagall's face. "I am quite aware of that. But no one can know, Hermione. His life would be forfeit at even a hint of suspicion. He only told you because under the circumstances, there was no other choice. – You are trained in Occlumency?"

"Yes. It's part of Auror training."

Satisfied, Minerva nodded. "So I can trust you to keep his secret. You do need to realize that it will be…terribly hard to go back. No one can know. You will have to continue to let them think you are dead, to look at their grief without being able to tell them who you really are…"

"I know," Hermione said in a small voice. "But it can't be forever?"

"I hope not," Minerva said fervently. "I think this war is drawing to a close – just a hunch in my bones." She patted Hermione's hand awkwardly. "Let's hope I am right."

.-.-.-.

Snape was frequently gone for hours at a time, presumably to the Dark Lord's side — Hermione did not dare inquire too closely. Often, he would look bone-tired when he returned – his face strained and even paler than usual, his limbs weighed down with weariness.

Maybe it was a result of her Auror training, of learning to look for the hidden nuances when talking to a suspect or informer, but over time, she learned to read him better, to pick up on subtleties in his voice and expression, in the process becoming more aware of how hard his life was, how precarious his situation.

As a result, guilt came flooding in swirling eddies. All of a sudden, every ugly thought, every time she had suspected him, every time she had cursed him over the last few years, every time she had stolen from him or set his robe on fire during her time as his student, came back to haunt her.

She should have been able to figure out the truth – there had been so many hints, so many clues…

"I should have known," she burst out wretchedly, the first evening she was able to get out of bed and, leaning heavily on him, make her way to the living room. "I mean, you had just saved Dumbledore's life, when his hand was cursed…. How could I have believed that you would actually…? But Harry saw…anyway, I'm_ so_ sorry…."

He looked down his long nose at her, a distant, unreadable expression on his face. "I knew when I killed him what to expect. You have nothing with which to reproach yourself."

Somehow, that didn't make her feel any better.

His lips curled into a sneer. "Come now, Granger. Even someone of your supposed genius can't be expected to figure out something that eluded the rest of the Order."

Yet the rest of the evening went surprisingly well. She told him of her life since they had left Hogwarts — about living with Harry, Ron, and Remus in the Black house. She liked living in London, and Harry didn't charge her rent. Harry worked for the Order full time, but she, of course, was at Auror Headquarters most of the day. It still was a sore spot with Harry that she had managed to get accepted into the Auror Corps and he had not. But while they had been off — .

She hesitated.

With a dry smile, Snape supplied, "…hunting Horcruxes?"

"You know?"

He nodded. "Of course."

_Of course. _The information that had led them to Hufflepuff's cup – that must have been him…. She flashed him a quick smile before continuing.

Well, anyway — while they had been off hunting Horcruxes, she had taken along N.E.W.T. level texts and had studied and practiced, and at the end of what would have been their seventh year, she had sat for her N.E.W.T.s and passed.

"I got an O in Potions," she told him with a smile.

"What did you have to brew?"

"Blood-Replenishing Potion."

He nodded. "Quite tricky…do you know that the properties can be enhanced by adding a teaspoon of turmeric immediately after adding the leech juice?"

"Really? I would have thought that the turmeric would counteract the…"

Before she knew it, they were knee-deep in Potions theory. When she went to bed an hour later, she smiled a disbelieving smile at the thought that she had just immensely enjoyed spending the evening with _Severus Snape_. Stimulating conversation was hard to come by at Number 12, Grimmauld Place — as much as she loved them otherwise, Harry, Ron, and Remus' usual conversation revolved around the Holyhead Harpies' new Seeker's trademark maneuver ("The Allen Cut"), Franz Anton's mesmerizing performance for the Austrian National Team during the last World Quidditch Cup, and the fact that the Cannons had been utter fools to trade O'Hara to the Pride of Portree.

After almost two years in that testosterone-laden household, she knew more about Quidditch than she ever cared to. It was wonderful for once to talk about something actually interesting…

.-.-.-.

Two days later, when he had once again gone out of the house, she had finally made it to the living room under her own power. She had been extraordinarily proud of herself when she, with a short groan, settled herself on the sofa. Smiling, she imagined the surprised look on his face when he came through the door and saw her there.

He would be pleased, of course – that much closer to being released from his responsibility for her. She wondered what he told Voldemort as to where he was spending so much time. He had told her that his own house — he apparently didn't normally reside here — was closely watched. Where did they think he was, then? Undoubtedly, he had thought up a convincing story…

When she heard the door open, she looked up with a smile. But the reaction that she had expected — the raised eyebrow, the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth — didn't materialize. He was pale as a sheet, taut as a bowstring. When he saw her, he stopped still.

"Miss Granger." His voice was as wooden as his expression. The smile dropped off her face.

"Sir? What is it?"

He didn't answer. Taking his Death Eater robe and mask from where they were still draped over his arm, he slowly, deliberately, hung them in the coat cupboard. He closed the door of the cupboard with exquisite care. She watched him briefly close his eyes, then walk over and sit down on the sofa next to her.

Now she was frightened. This wasn't normal behavior for him — he usually kept physical distance unless contact was utterly necessary.

"Sir? Please say something?"

He finally raised his eyes. "I'm afraid I have… bad news. Ronald Weasley was killed today. A trap."

She gazed at him without comprehension.

Ron. Her once-upon-a-time boyfriend, until they had mutually decided that Quidditch obsession and bookwormishness did not complement each other. Ron, with his boisterous enthusiasm. Ron, who had been one of her best friends ever since her first year at Hogwarts, both before and after the boyfriend episode. Funny, flame-haired, freckle-faced Ron. He couldn't be dead. Snape must have him confused with someone else.

"No." The word came out in a cold whisper. "No." With a choking little cry, she drew back from him. "No. You must be mistaken."

He shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

Slowly, the realization of what he was telling her started to percolate through her consciousness, small roots of grief worming their way through her mind. "_No._" With it came anger. This was senseless, pointless…

"Why didn't you stop them?" The words came hard and scorching. "Were you there? You never liked him, did you? Did you help them kill him? Just another reckless Gryffindor?" She turned on him angrily as her tears started rising, her hands tightening into fists. "Did you enjoy it? Watching him die?" Somewhere deep down inside she knew she was being unreasonable, but right then it felt good to lash out, to hurt him back, the way his words had hurt her. And she _was_ hurting him; she could see it in the expression of his eyes, could see it in the fine lines of pain around his mouth.

"I did not know." He held her off by her upper arms. "I did not find out until too late…"

But she was past caring. "You should have found a way…" She was sobbing now. And then, just as quickly, the anger crumbled away, leaving raw agony. And she knew that the accusations she was throwing at him were capitally unfair, and yet he just sat there, his expression stiff and drawn, taking it, and it was worse than if he had flared up and defended himself.

"I am sorry." She repeated it again and again. "I'm so sorry." Sorry for Ron, for herself, for what she had just done to him. And he was here, and she needed someone, anyone; this was hurting too badly, and so (how exactly, she could not later remember) she ended up leaning forward and crying against his chest, lost in grief, ashamed, not knowing what else to do.

For a moment, he sat there quietly, and then, very slowly, his arms went around her, as if he was expecting her to shrug them off, and when she didn't, they wrapped closely around her and held her tight.

She couldn't have said how long they sat there like that, she crying wildly against the heavy cotton of his robe, he sitting still, not saying or doing anything other than simply holding her, letting her cry.

When the first wave of grief died down and the tears came more quietly, she still didn't let go. There was, at the edge of her awareness, the realization that she was comfortable here; that she was glad of the feeling of his arms around her, strong and reliable; that the faintly medicinal smell of him was comforting and familiar. A small part of her mind wondered how and when that had happened, and the rest of her was merely glad that it had, that she didn't have to be alone right now.

.-.-.-.

Some time later, when she was mostly cried out, spent and headachy, grief dully throbbing like an aching tooth, she slowly straightened up. He released her immediately, quickly dropping his arms. She cast a quick, sideways glance at him — there was an odd expression on his face, a mixture of pain, awkwardness, and a touch of…longing? Fear?

When he saw her look, his face quickly changed back to the normal impassive mask.

"Let me give you a potion to help you relax and sleep," he said as he sat up as well, his voice carefully modulated. "You need to rest."

She leaned heavily on him as he helped her back to her bedroom, letting him care for her as if she were a child as he settled her into bed.

"I _know_ that it wasn't your fault," she repeated awkwardly when she handed back the potion vial as he pulled the blanket up over her. "I shouldn't have said those things."

He cast her another closed glance. "You were understandably overwrought. I did not hold the words against you."

Maybe not. But she knew that she_ had _hurt him. She reached out and quickly covered his hand with hers. For a second, the odd look she had seen earlier flitted across his face again.

"Thank you," she said softly. She felt the potion beginning to work, her limbs growing heavy, her mind feeling floaty and unfocused. Reality faded away, as the draught he had given her for the moment pushed the ugliness and pain of her loss towards the edges of her consciousness. "And do forgive me, please. You've been…good to me. You're a good man, Severus Snape."

And realized with fuzzy astonishment that she meant what she had said. "Really, not a bad sort at all," she said, feeling sleepy and dizzy and relaxed. She put her hand against his cheek. "You're hard to get to know, you see…but I think I might like to…. You have very nice eyes…." She smiled. "I like it when you talk to me…talk to me some more…."

"You don't know what you are saying, Miss Granger." There was a strained note in his voice. "It appears the potion was too strong for you."

"Hermione," she said with a yawn as her eyelids started to droop. "You should call me Hermione, Severus…" Her voice trailed away as she fell asleep.

* * *

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! There were a few Rickman references hidden in this chapter, mainly for the benefit of Verity Brown and Bellegeste, fellow Rickman fans who beta-read and Britpicked this chapter. (Thank you very much!) 


	4. Not A Terribly Bad Idea

A/N: Recap of the story so far: An injured Hermione wakes up to find that Snape has rescued her after she was captured by Death Eaters during a raid. It turns out that, as far as Dumbledore's death is concerned, Harry (as usual) didn't get his facts right. Since Voldemort has ordered her dead, she can't return to the Order – at least not as Hermione Granger. Since there is a mole in the order, doing so would be the equivalent of signing Snape's death sentence. So, with the help of Minerva McGonagall, they concoct a plan (using Polyjuice) that will allow her to return to the Order under an alias once she is recovered. While she is still recuperating, Snape returns one evening with the news that Ron Weasley has been killed in action.

* * *

She woke up the next morning to a fresh wave of grief dragging at her like a riptide, threatening to wash her out to sea. 

Ron was dead.

When Snape entered with breakfast, acute embarrassment was added to the emotions churning inside her. She had been cruel to him last night. And something else had happened. She couldn't quite remember what — for some reason, much of what happened last night was a complete blur — but there was a vague feeling that something she had said hadn't been appropriate.

What _had _he given her?

Her muscles still protesting, she pulled herself up into a sitting position.

"Miss Granger." He set down the breakfast plate with a nod and turned to leave, the stiffness that had been absent for the last few days back in his posture and his voice.

"Sir?"

He turned back towards her with obvious reluctance.

"I think we should make arrangements for me to return to the Order," Hermione said in a rush. "I'm feeling…quite well enough. It is time." She had imposed on his hospitality long enough. Her presence had to be a burden he could do without.

His face stayed expressionless. "Very well. As long as you are certain."

She gave him a half-smile. "I am. At least I think I am. "

The story they had agreed on was that she was Jane Brown, an Unspeakable who for the last few years had supplied the Order with undercover information, dealing directly only with first Dumbledore and then Minerva. She had recently been injured after her identity had been exposed to Voldemort's forces, and would have to recover at headquarters.

Going back under an alias would enable her to be of some use to the Order again, as soon as she was fully on her feet. The Light needed all the help they could get.

Then, when it was safe to resume her old identity — once Voldemort was dead — the plan was to stage a theoretical coup in which Hermione Granger would get dramatically rescued while Jane Brown met her sad end.

It sounded simple enough, but as Hermione looked up into the impassive face of her former teacher, she was suddenly assailed by doubts. Was going back really the right thing to do?

Again the enormity of what he had risked to get her out of Voldemort's clutches was driven home to her. As was the fact that he was placing his life in her hands. One wrong word, and he might be found out. One slip of the tongue, overheard by whoever was passing information to Voldemort, and it could spell the end for him. "I'll be careful," she said, without being asked. "I promise."

"See that you are. I'll contact Minerva and let her know."

.-.-.-.

An hour later he was back, setting three large bottles and a small envelope down on her bedside table. "Minerva will be here shortly. Here is the Polyjuice Potion, enough for at least a month, and the hair to add to it. I have more of both should the need arise." It was impossible to tell for how long exactly she would have to live as Jane Brown. "This house is Fidelius protected. Number 23, Candlestick Lane, Oxenholme. You may come here to replenish your supplies, if need be. I do not usually reside here, so you don't have to be afraid of …imposing." He pointed to the small wall cupboard. "I will leave everything necessary in there. The envelope with the extra hair will be labeled with your name."

Hermione nodded, took the first bottle of Polyjuice, carefully extracted a hair from the envelope, and dropped it in. The potion hissed and frothed, then turned a dull, dark grey.

"Where did you get the hair?" Hermione asked.

"A Muggle," he said, in a tone of voice that discouraged further questions. He handed her a small, empty bottle made from opaque green glass, prominently labeled 'Snap-back Solution.' "Here."

Hermione recognized the name – it was a general strengthening elixir they had brewed in their fourth year. Apparently, the man had thought of everything. Since the Polyjuice must be taken every hour, this would provide an adequate explanation if she had to take it in public. Jane Brown was supposed to be a convalescent, after all.

"Very clever. Thank you, sir." Decanting some of the finished Polyjuice into the smaller bottle, Hermione wrinkled her nose at the familiar cabbage smell. With a sigh, she eyed the bottle, then took a quick sip. "Well, here goes…"

The transformation was as unpleasant as she remembered, as her skin, muscle, and bone reshaped to the form of someone else. Less than a minute later, Hermione Granger was gone, and a stranger named Jane Brown sat in her place. She got up and stepped reluctantly in front of the small, half-blind mirror hanging on the wall. 'Jane' was at least ten years older than she, maybe a centimeter shorter, with shoulder-length, mousy brown hair and hazel eyes. Hermione touched the straight, dull tresses, shivering at the strangeness of it all, all of a sudden fighting tears again.

When would this be over? When would all the changes and losses stop? Would there ever be a time when things went back to quiet and normal?

She turned to Snape, as if he could provide the answer. It had been a common reaction for her lately, she realized. But he was looking at her with shuttered eyes, his mouth in a straight, grim line, and she knew that in this case, he would be as much at sea as everyone else.

Only a short time later, Minerva appeared, and they left the house together. Just before they Disapparated, Hermione turned back for a last look. Snape stood motionlessly in the doorway, watching, a silent, solitary figure. She raised her hand slightly, waving a hesitant goodbye.

She would miss him, she realized with a sudden jolt.

It was time to go back; the Order needed her, and she needed them, needed to be with them, now that Ron was dead. It was the right thing to do.

But she would miss him.

**.-.-.-**

It felt good to see them all again. Harry, Remus, Ginny, Molly... Hermione resolutely blinked away the tears as she looked at red-rimmed eyes in worn, drained faces, now staring at her with wary expressions. There had of course been questions and raised eyebrows when McGonagall had shown up at headquarters with a perfect stranger in tow.

"Her name's Jane. Jane Brown. I've known her for years." McGonagall, voice raised and eyes glaring fiercely over the top of her square glasses, had recited the agreed-upon backstory perfectly and with passion. "Please do make her feel welcome. Though you haven't met her before, she's as much a part of the Order as any of you."

"If yeh say so." Dedalus Diggle's voice sounded doubtful. Hermione suppressed a sigh – she was sure many of the others shared his doubts. It was understandable, of course. She would have been suspicious herself in their position.

"Look, she's here, isn't she?" The mere fact that Hermione – Jane – had been able to even enter the Black residence proved that she belonged. "If Dumbledore thought she could be trusted, isn't that enough for you?"

"Well, he's been known to be wrong before, hasn't he?" Diggle said sullenly.

Hermione tensed, and saw Minerva's hands ball into fists at her side.

Remus stepped forward and gave Diggle a warning glance. "You have to forgive our manners, Miss Brown. I'm afraid you've caught us at a rather…difficult time. You must be tired. Let me see you up to your room…"

.-.-.

Yes, it felt good to be back – at first. Rejoining the Order turned out to be much more difficult than she had expected. Hermione had not been prepared for how hard it would be to come back as a stranger, to be there, but not belong.

These were kind people, she knew, but at the moment, the stranger in their midst was simply an unwelcome imposition. Jane had no right to intrude on their private sorrowing.

She wanted to hold them, touch them, grieve and cry with them, reminisce with them, reassure them. To comfort them, and be comforted herself. Instead, she had to hide her own anguish and stand on the sidelines, unable to do much of anything other than offer general condolences.

In the middle of all these people she loved, she felt more alone than she ever had before.

It was hard, watching them hurt. To see Remus look years older than he had looked just weeks ago. To see the twins subdued and quiet, so unlike their typical selves. To see Tonks colorless and drab, the spark driven out of her. To see Molly and Ginny watch Harry with anxious eyes, the last of the trio to survive.

Harry. How many more losses could he take?

Oh, how she wished now that he would have tried harder, that he wouldn't have given Snape reason to stop the Occlumency lessons. Sometimes, she got close to revealing herself to him, to let him know that she was alive, to at least lift _that_ burden off him. But she knew that she couldn't – it was anyone's guess when Voldemort would try and reestablish the connection to his mind. It was simply too big a risk to take.

She tried talking to him a few times, only to find herself firmly rebuffed. To him, she was just an irritating, meddling stranger.

"I hate being Jane Brown," she said with explosive force as she took tea in her room with Minerva a couple of weeks after she had got back. "_I hate it."_ She hated the face-that-wasn't-hers looking back in the mirror. She hated the way her friends treated her with remote, kind politeness, as if she were nothing but a business associate. She hated the way conversations stopped when she entered the room, the way they would impatiently look up and wait for her to leave. "I don't want to do this any more."

Minerva surreptitiously strengthened the Muffliato she had cast before looking at her with sympathy. "I know it's hard, but…"

Hermione had got up and was pacing the room restlessly. "I didn't think it would be _this_ hard. They are all starting to refer to me in the bloody _past_ _tense."_

"Harry isn't," Minerva said quietly.

Hermione laughed bitterly. "Do you see the looks the rest of them give each other when he talks of rescue plans? They think he's crazy to still hold out hope."

"Well, he isn't, isn't he?" Minerva put down her cup. "It's only a matter of time until you…"

"A matter of time! Ron's dead, and they think _I'm _dead, and I have to tell them lie after lie after lie, if they even talk to me at all. I _hate _being Jane Brown! – You know what I did?" Her laugh had slightly crazed edge to it. "I took some of the Polyjuice that Snape gave me and added one of my _own_ hairs, just so I know I can turn back into myself when I want to. I can't even stand to be Jane for the bloody hour it takes for the bloody potion to wear off at night!"

Minerva shrugged. "That sounds reasonable enough."

"Sometimes I feel like I'm going crazy. If it wasn't for you…" She raised her hands helplessly. "It's just – I can't even talk about Ron to them. Or about anything else that really matters." Her voice broke. "I miss him so much. – Do you think that is what Snape felt like all those years? Always on the outside looking in?"

"Shush. Not here." Minerva had got up as well. "I tell you what, child. When you can't stand it here any more, come and see me at Hogwarts. My quarters are safe from spies or Extendable Ears, and you can be yourself for at least an hour or two."

Hermione laughed shakily. "I'd love that."

"It's settled then. Come on Tuesday. I'll be done by four."

.-.-.-.

She began to look forward to the visits with a fervency that seemed almost obsessive. An hour to be herself, an hour talk to someone who knew who she was, an hour to talk about anything she needed to talk about – about her friends, about her fears and worries, about Ron. About Snape.

Another thing that had turned out so much harder than she had imagined was listening to them talk about Snape, to watch their faces contort with hatred at the mere mention of his name, and say nothing, to bite her tongue day after day.

She found herself thinking about him constantly – a lone man walking on the edge of a precipice, with no room for error. The smallest mistake would have deadly consequences. And not just from Voldemort's side. Should the Auror Corps find him, they would fire spells first and ask questions later.

It seemed to do Minerva good, as well, to talk about her Severus to someone who had a willing ear. The old witch had carried his secret a lot longer than she had.

In the course of their conversations, Hermione learned more about him, about his student years, his first years as a teacher, and his role as their spy than she had ever expected. There was so much she hadn't known — things that made her gasp, made her laugh, made her cry, made her angry, made her feel ashamed for the wizarding world. Things that made her feel as if she was finally beginning to know him.

When after three weeks she went back to Dumbledore's house to replenish her supply of Polyjuice, she found the place empty. Of course, he_ had_ told her not to expect him there, she told herself. It would have been silly to get her hopes up.

And yet she lingered as long as she could.

He never appeared.

.-.-.

Sometimes when she visited with Minerva, Snape's Patronus would arrive with a message. A magnificent eagle – she had recognized it immediately as his.

She could not think of a Patronus that would have been more appropriate for him. Proud and solitary; fiercely protective of those who belonged to him; loyal, but not mindlessly so; strong and brave and independent. It suited him perfectly.

She breathed a sigh of relief every time she saw it, because it meant that he was still alive, that he was, for now, safe.

Its raptor silhouette reminded her of his beaky, proud, slightly sinister looks. She had always thought of him as ugly, and she couldn't quite figure out when that had changed. It wasn't as if his looks had improved, but when she thought of him now, what she remembered was the way he carried himself; his voice; the elegant motion of long, thin hands; the sound of his heartbeat as she had cried against his chest…

Now the hair — well, yes, something would have to be done about that, of course, but… At that point, she ruthlessly pulled the emergency brakes on her train of thought and jumped off.

It was not likely Snape's hair was ever going to be her concern, was it?

.-.-.-.

Things came to a head in late May. There had been a Patronus from Snape, with news of the greatest urgency. Apparently, Voldemort had just recently taken up residence at Malfoy Manor, and Severus had managed to slip some poison into Nagini's food. The great snake, the last Horcrux, lay dying. It was imperative for the Order to move instantly, and he would…

The Patronus blinked out suddenly, in the middle of a sentence. Hermione's heart stopped for a second.

"What does that mean? Why did it do that?"

"I don't know." Minerva's voice sounded ragged. "But we had better go now…"

Not half an hour later, the Order Apparated in the grounds of Malfoy Manor, and shortly thereafter Ministry forces arrived as well. The battle raged on for what seemed like hours, as Aurors and Order members fought Death Eaters.

And then, suddenly, just like that, it was over.

Voldemort was vanquished. Bodies, of friends and enemies, dead or merely stunned, littered the grounds. The remaining Death Eaters high-tailed it out of there, disappearing with quick, final 'pops' as they Disapparated.

She hadn't seen Snape anywhere. Not on the side of the Death Eaters, not joining the Order. The thought gave her an icy feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was so…unlike him. He would have been there, if given the chance.

As soon as she could, while the rest of them were still busy attending to wounded comrades, she ran towards the Manor. She passed a group huddled around Harry; Remus Lupin was attempting to mend a cut on his forehead, but the young man was struggling to get away, his voice filled with angry determination – "…Let me go…have to find…"  
She passed another small group where two Aurors were levitating a limp McGonagall off the ground. Snippets of voices drifted her way. "…unconscious…." "…still breathing…" "…got to get her to St. Mungo's…"

Hurrying on, she reached the Manor. An Auror — she knew him; he worked under Marston — was examining the corpse of the huge Snake. Another Auror was already checking the ground floor, wand drawn.  
"Anything?" she called softly.

He shook his head. "No."

She hurried ahead down the corridors, checking doors. If Snape was still here, if he was still alive, she had to get to him before anyone else. As universally hated as he was, she wouldn't put it past any of them to finish him off and declare him a casualty of battle, just one more dead Death Eater.

And the only person who could effectively exonerate him was unconscious and on her way to St. Mungo's.

She found him in a room in the basement, behind a door with a weak ward, as if it had been warded in a hurry: a heap of black fabric, his face ghastly pale, his eyes closed. "Ennervate!" she muttered frantically, kneeling down next to him on the ground. How badly was he hurt?

His eyes fluttered open. She had to think fast — she could hear voices at the end of the long corridor. She ran her hands over his arms and legs carefully; there seemed to be nothing broken and he wasn't bleeding, but he was obviously in no shape to go anywhere quickly. What she wouldn't give for a bottle of Invigoration Draught right now!

Instead, she cast every energizing spell she could think of.

"_Oh, please_ get up, we have to get you out of here…" she begged.

One way or another, she needed to make Severus disappear before they found him. Thinking rapidly, she pulled a vial out of her pocket. The familiar rotten cabbage smell rose into the air as she pulled out the cork. "Here." She lifted the bottle to his mouth. "Drink it. _Now."_

He took a choking gulp, and she stuffed the vial back into her pocket. As he started to transform, his form shrinking, becoming smaller, his black hair curling up into brown frizz, she looked anxiously to the door. _Just another second, _she thought fervently. _I need just another second_. In front of her, Snape had turned into a replica of Hermione Granger. The spells had done their job, as well. He — _she_ — was attempting to get up.

Draping his arm around her shoulders, she helped him to his feet. His Death Eater robes hung loosely on him, now too big and too long.

Then Harry's face appeared in the doorway.

"Hermione!" With a few quick steps, Harry walked up and pulled Snape into a bear hug. "Oh god, I had almost given up hope," — his words came out muffled; he sounded like he was crying and laughing at the same time — "I thought you were dead. I can't believe you're alive…"

'Jane' had reluctantly let go as Harry pushed her out of the way. She could see Snape glaring at her over Harry's shoulder, incredulity and revulsion flitting across his face. It was…bizarre, seeing that Snapish look on her own features. She had to bite her tongue to stop herself from breaking into hysterical giggles.

Putting a hand on his back, she stepped closer. If Harry was here, Remus and Tonks were probably not far behind. She needed to get Snape to safety. And she couldn't allow herself to be separated from him – if the Polyjuice Potion wore of, and she wasn't there…

"She should really go to St Mungo's, there is no telling what curses she's been subjected to…"

But how to get rid of Harry? She felt somewhat guilty, but there was only one absolutely sure-fire way she could think of.

"By the way, did anyone find Snape yet?" She watched the happy grin fall off Harry's face. "She says she thinks they locked him up on the second basement level. Apparently, he double-crossed them, too." She slipped a protective arm back around Snape's waist as Harry straightened up.

To her surprise, Harry didn't storm off the way she had expected. He just gave a tired shrug. "Let him rot there, then." He reached out and squeezed his friend's arm. "All I was worried about was finding you. I _told_ them you'd still be alive!"

"Well, you found me," Snape, who apparently had caught on, spoke up with impatience. "Now go finish the job. Go find the man responsible for all of this. "

Harry straightened up with a sigh, regret edged on his features. "I suppose you're right. I'll come to St. Mungo's as soon as we finish mopping up here." He pulled 'Hermione' into another quick hug before turning to Jane. "You'll take care of her?"

The real Hermione nodded. "I will. We're going right now."

Harry looked at Snape again. "Are you all right going with her, Hermione? Maybe we should wait for Tonks."

Snape quickly interrupted him. "Don't worry about me. It's fine."

Harry finally seemed satisfied. "All right, then…I'll see you later, okay?"

As he disappeared down the corridor, Hermione quickly draped Snape's arm over her shoulder again. "Let's go quickly, before someone else shows up."

"This way," Snape said, pointing at a small door off to the right. "It'll take us to a hidden passage in the back. We can get past the Anti-Apparition wards without being seen."

Hermione nodded. Good thinking. He was still wearing Death Eater robes, and she didn't want anyone firing a final curse in their direction. With a slash of her wand, she severed the hem of the much-too-long robe so he could walk without tripping.

As they slowly and painfully made her way along the passage, she gave him a sideways look filled with worry. What had happened to him? What had they done to him?

"You got caught?" She knew the question was stupid the moment she asked it. That much was obvious. "What did they do to you? Do you need a Healer?"

"No." The word came out fiercely. "I just need to get away from here."

They had reached the back of the building. After a quick glance to make sure no one was looking, Hermione half-dragged him across a small strip of open land, into a copse of trees. "Are we past the wards yet?"

He nodded. "We can Apparate."

She looked at him doubtfully. "_Can _you Apparate?"

Conflicting emotions warred on his face. He would hate having to ask for help, she realized. With a small smile, she turned and wrapped her arms around him. "Just hold on; I'll take you." A moment later they reappeared in front of the house on Candlestick Lane.

.-.-.-.

"You may leave now," he said as he straightened up, swaying as he attempted to support his own weight. "I can take it from here."

Ignoring him, she took him by the arm and helped him up the front steps and through the door.

"Easy now," she murmured as he nearly tripped, the effects of the energizing spells obviously fading rapidly. "Just a bit further. We're almost there."

A minute later, she was helping him lie down on the same bed where she had spent her first few days in this house.

With a wave of her wand, she sent off her Patronus. Minerva should know where they were, and that Severus was, for now, safe. She fervently hoped the witch would be well enough to take the message.

Once she had tugged off his boots – now much too big on his feet – she got up and rummaged through the potion cabinet, finding the spherical bottle from which he had medicated her when she had first arrived. The condition he was in, it was a safe bet that he had been on the receiving end of more than one Cruciatus. She turned to him, holding the bottle up. "This one?"

He nodded. His eyes were half closed as he lay rigidly on the bed, his face white and drawn. Her heart performed an odd sort of backflip as she looked at him. He must be hurting badly…

She measured out a tablespoon of potion and, supporting his head, helped him to drink. The tension drained out of his body as the potion took effect, relieving the pain.

Hermione forced herself not to stare — it was disconcerting, looking down at him looking like her, while she was still looking like Jane. This had to go down as one of the most surreal moments in her personal history…

With a quick decision, she pulled out the Polyjuice (the 'Hermione' Polyjuice) and took a swig. A minute later, there were two Hermiones in the room. No more Jane. She was so tired of Jane.

Snape opened his eyes. "My comb is in the bathroom. You should be able to find a hair…" She nodded and trotted off in the direction of the bathroom. She knew exactly how he felt.

.-.-.

"You should return to London. Your friends will want to see you," he said when he was finally himself again. He had regained a hint of color, she noticed with satisfaction. "Potter, especially."

"They can wait a few hours," she said firmly. "I don't want to leave you like this. You don't even have your wand."

"Really, I can…"

"What goes around comes around. It's _my _turn to take care of _you_."

At that moment, a silvery, ghostly cat entered the room straight through the wall. Hermione smiled — apparently, Professor McGonagall was going to be all right. _Stay where you are, _the Patronus said inside their heads, in McGonagall's stern voice. _Don't leave until I have straightened the whole mess out and tell you it is safe. I'll explain to Harry and the rest of the Order. _

The cat disappeared, and Hermione suddenly sat down on the edge of his bed, the muscles in her legs starting to shake and give way. All that had happened started to crash in on her.

"It's over," she said in a trembling voice, half to herself. "He's dead. It's finally over."

"What happened? How did he die?"

"I don't know," she said with a shaky laugh. "It all happened so fast…I was fighting this Death Eater, and then all of a sudden, there is this shout, and I look over, and he is simply gone… He's really _gone _this time."

She watched him swallow hard, and felt sudden tears in her own eyes. "You are free," she said softly. "You can go where you want now, live your own life…"

He gave a soft, bitter snort. "We'll see if Minerva is successful in convincing the Ministry that I was an unwilling participant. I am not yet certain they'll come around to her point of view."

"Knowing Minerva, she won't rest until your name is cleared. She can be rather persuasive. And she has that letter and the memories from Albus to prove her point." She smiled and laid a hand lightly on his arm. "She is rather fond of you, you know. – Is there anything else I can get you? How about that other potion you gave me back then? Would that help?"

He shook his head. "I just need some rest. Fortunately, they had time for merely a few rounds of the Cruciatus before the Order arrived and so rudely interrupted them."

_Merely_. Fleetingly, she wondered exactly what had been done to him in the past for him to write that much pain off as 'merely a few rounds of the Cruciatus.'

"I was so worried." She shuddered. "I was afraid that if you weren't dead already, they would kill you when we arrived."

"One advantage of dealing with a megalomaniac is that the Dark Lord would never have admitted the possibility of defeat to himself," he said dryly. "He was fully confident of being able to return later and finish what he started."

"For once, I am glad for that," she said quietly. Then, hesitantly, she reached out and gently brushed the hair back from his forehead. "I'm so glad you're safe. Go to sleep now…no one will find us tonight."

He looked at her with the same look she had seen on his face months earlier — a mix of awkwardness, pain, and fear. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse. But she noted that he wasn't stopping her, wasn't pushing her hand away.

"I think," she said softly, as she continued the caress, "that I am telling you that I would very much like to get to know you better."

"You would?" His expression was carefully guarded, tinged with disbelief and something else.

"Yes. I would." The way he was looking at her then made her think that it might not be an _absolutely_ terrible idea to kiss him. And so she did, leaning forward, brushing his lips softly with hers, a kiss gentle and tender and chaste. There was hope in that kiss. Hope that after all these years of fighting, of death and of pain, there could be a future that was _good_. A future with him in it.

She looked into his eyes, so deep and dark, and smiled. Yes. She could see it clearly.

For a moment, wonder, doubt and hunger chased each other across his face, and then he reached up and buried his hand in her hair, pulling her down towards him, for a kiss that she was sure would not be chaste at all. And right before their lips met, her heart twisted with joy as she caught the expression in his eyes.

Apparently, he could see it, too.

* * *

A/N: This was at first draft stage beta'ed by Bellegeste, but has undergone major revisions since that time, so I hope you'll forgive me for any mistakes I have edited in. 

This was originally 'commissioned' in the gift exchange as a one-shot, and at 12,000 words is already pushing that, so there is much that didn't get fit in that probably should have. An epilogue at some point is a distinct possibility.

To tie up one loose end that just wouldn't fit in since the story ends before the characters find out: When Harry and Co searched the second basement level, they found a number of captives, among them Dedalus Diggle's granddaughter.

Voldemort had been able to pull the image of the original Order of the Phoenix from Harry's mind before he severed the mental bond, and was able to identify the old wizard from that. Diggle, afraid for his family and being a rather weak man, decided to cooperate with him. He tried to be judicious in what he passed on, but Diggle didn't have much of a chance to hide anything: Voldemort just took whatever he needed via Legilimency (so while Diggle thought he was only passing on minor tidbits, Voldemort was getting all he was after.)

After the last battle, Diggle disappeared without a trace, but some say a silly old man wearing a rather threadbare violet top hat was spotted in Argentina a few years later. :-)

Thanks so much for reading (and reviews make my day!)


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